Nicknames
by peoplejustcallmewtf
Summary: Jim has a ton of nicknames for Sherlock. Sherlock loves them, despite himself. This is Sheriarty/Jimlock/Morlock. Heavy stuff. No porn here. Not my scene. It gets hot and heavy in places, but not actual porn. That distinction is important to me.
1. Prologue

Jim has roughly 25 nicknames for Sherlock. He pretends to hate them, but he can't, not really. Every time that Jim says one of them, color rushes to Sherlock's cheeks; his heart starts to flutter. God. How can he hate them? He never could. 


	2. Sexy

The phone rings. Sherlock startles, looks up in surprise. His hand reaches into his pocket and pulls out the pink monstrosity, all the while staring at Carl Powers' sneakers. "Hello?" he says smoothly. /Don't be excited. Don't sound excited, at the very least./ He knows what will happen. John will sigh and shake his head and say those dreaded four words: "A bit not good." /Don't. Act. Excited./

"H-hello, s-sexy." A woman's voice sobs out into the room on speaker. His heartrate quickens with excitement. A flirt. Insecure, outrageous to cover it up. Textbook.

"What's wrong? Why are you crying?" he commands. He doesn't /really/ care, not enough to mean it, but it'll keep John from looking at him with those disappointed eyes.

"I-I'm not crying, I'm typing, a-and this... stupid bitch is reading it out." Lestrade makes a noise of disgust, his face clearly expressing his opinion of the perpetrator of this crime.

It's all that Sherlock can do to hide his grin. This is a beautiful madcap game starting. He can feel it.


	3. Dear

"So consider this a friendly warning, my dear." Moriarty purrs. "Back off." The words have a dangerous undertone, and his voice comes out in a growl.

Sherlock studies the criminal in front of him. He's shorter, dark brown hair, sharklike smile. Definitely even close to the timid gay man that he'd met earlier.

"Or what? You'll kill me, I suppose." Please, don't be dull. That would be such a disappointment. Such a... almost a betrayal.

"No. Don't be obvious. I mean, I'm obviously going to kill you anyway. No. If you don't stop prying... I'll burn you. I will burn the heart out of you."

He can do his worst. Sherlock is ready for him.


	4. Honey

Sherlock stares across the coffee table at Moriarty. He sits, legs crossed at the ankle, tossing his apple from hand to hand before continuing to carve into its skin with a knife.

"In a world of locked rooms, the man with the key is king. And honey, you should see me in a crown." he drawls.

Sherlock refrains from saying that he has. He saw the footage from the tower. He looked...

Fine. Maybe Moriarty looked good in a crown. Whatever. You didn't hear it from Sherlock. He doesn't need to know that. So Sherlock bites his tongue, looks down for a moment and forces himself not to smile. Because truthfully?

Moriarty should wear a crown _all the time_.


	5. Doofus

They stand there on that rooftop and watch each other circle. The spider has closed in on the fly, but the fly still has a few tricks up his sleeve.

"I could _kill_ Rich Brook and bring back James Moriarty." Sherlock counters.

Moriarty looks honest-to-God disappointed. He puts his face in his hands and lets out a low moan. "No, no, no... This is too easy, this is _too easy_." He stands, gets up in Sherlock's face. "There is no key code, _doofus!_" The last word comes out in practically a scream.

He was wrong. He was wrong, and Moriarty thinks that he's an idiot, and, _damn, _he's surprised by how much that hurts.


	6. Dearest

Sherlock visits 221B once before he leaves the country. He knows that John will be out; he couldn't possibly feel up to returning to the flat yet. So Sherlock goes back just to say goodbye to the old place. How sentimental of him.

He stands there in the living room, smiling sadly at his possessions- and then his eyes alight on a padded envelope that he knows hadn't been there before. It looks just like-well, just like the ones that Moriarty had used for their little 'game'. He crosses to the mantelpiece and retrieves the creamy package that is leaning against his skull. It's sealed with the same thick red stamp, and for a moment he experiences an intense sensation of deja vu.

Cautiously, he grabs a knife and slits ope the package. All that falls out is a DVD case and a tiny scrap of paper. He touches the paper first. All it says is, "Kisses! xoxo Jim". He lets out a low groan that could almost be a laugh.

Then he flips over the DVD case. There's a picture of Moriarty as Richard Brook with words in-ugh- Comic Sans underneath him: 'The Storyteller'. Really? Oh, sweet Jesus...

He checks his watch. Mrs. Hudson won't be back for another hour and a half. He's got time.

Sherlock puts the DVD in his DVD player, sits in his armchair and waits. After a few moments, Moriarty's smug visage flickers onto the screen.

"Sherly baby!" he cheers, grinning widely. "Didja miss me? I'm sorry, dearest, truly I am. But it's a dirty business, being your archenemy. Now, clearly, if you're watching this video, something went wrong on that rooftop, and only one of us made it out alive." He flicks an eyebrow. "Don't look so surprised, of course I knew that you were going to fake it. I'm not stupid. However, I am-" He draws a finger across his throat and makes a face. "Well, you get the picture." He smiles again, manic. "But hey, at least I went out with a BANG!" He laughs. Sherlock stares. His heart constricts the tiniest bit. Don't. He doesn't want jokes, he wants him _back_.

Moriarty-ah, fuck it, he's Jim to Sherlock, no matter how he tries to hide it- _Jim_ makes a face of mock surprise and shame. "Too soon?" Yes.

"Ah, well. I thought that it was funny. Anyway, I'm dreadfully sorry for leaving you alone. But I did say that I was going to kill you, and if I didn't have the heart to burn yours out..." He pretends to stick a finger down his throat and vomit. "It's sad, I know. But who knows? Without me, maybe you'll die of boredom. The I win!" He claps his hand in an exaggerated display of excitement.

The insanity leaves his eyes for a moment and is replaced by something sad. "I suppose this is the last time, isn't it, dearest? So I should end with something special." He is silent as he thinks. "Ciao... Sherlock Holmes." He blows a kiss and then turns away. "Sebby, turn the damn camera off. I'm going to go shoot something." Sherlock belatedly catches the kiss and holds it like it's tangible in his palm.

The screen goes black.


	7. Mr Holmes

All throughout Europe, he stops to take down another strand of the spiderweb. And every time he does, his brain throws in another catty comment from Jim.

_Dear me, Mr Holmes. 4 months away from the doctor. Is he really still alive? Shocker!_

_Dear me, Mr Holmes. It's been a year and you__ still__ haven't take down my enterprise? I'm disappointed in you, Ordinary Sherlock, really._

_Oh, Mr Holmes, too tired to fight back? He's got you chained and whipped into submission and you can't even manage a scathing comment? Thank __God__ I killed myself before you had the opportunity to disappoint me like this. If I'd known that it would be this easy, I'd have made you mine._

_Finally. 2 years, and you're finally done. About time. But here comes the real clincher, no? It's time to go home. Or should I say, it's time to go, Holmes?_

_This time I won't be there to welcome you back, Mr Holmes. London won't be quite the same. But good luck. Stay safe out there. Or don't. Either way, I'll see you soon._


	8. Sherlylocks

After Sherlock staggers home drunk from the so-called crime scene, John bids him adieu and calls a cab to get home. Sherlock crawls up the stairs alone and collapses in the living room. God, his head hurts. Why on earth do people drink? It's the worst thing in the world. He looks up blearily at the ceiling, pondering if he can get up and crawl into his bed. ...Probably not. Ah, well. He's comfortable enough on the floor.

He hears the door open, but the gait sounds all wrong. It's not Mrs. Hudson, that's for sure. It does sound familiar, but he can't quite place it. Who...?

"Oh, wow, Sherlylocks," No. No. Impossible. "Can't handle your drink, hm? Too funny." He slowly, slowly turns his head. Jim? But... how?

"You're dead." he slurs.

"So were you." Jim replies matter-of-factly, sitting cross-legged next to the detective. "Welcome back."  
"I faked it. You didn't... I checked..."  
"I know. Your concern was sweet. But you couldn't find me. It would've ruined the surprise."

Sherlock feels bile rising up in his throat. Jim lets out a noise of revulsion and disapproval before turning him onto his side. The drunk man vomits.

"...Charming." Jim says, wrinkling his nose. He gathers up Sherlock, gangly limbs and all, into his arms and begins to pick him up. "Christ, Sherlock, for someone so skinny..." He lets out a grunt before finally scooping him up. Sherlock instinctively wraps his legs around Sherlock's waist.  
"I'll leave that for your housekeeper. That's getting my hands a little _too_ dirty."

He starts walking toward Sherlock's bedroom, Sherlock resting his head against his shoulder and making soft noises of fatigue. Jim nudges the door open with his foot and steps inside, glancing around. "Nice needle collection. Fallen off the wagon again?" Sherlock bites his shoulder in protest, but Jim just chuckles and lays him down on the bed. He rolls the pliant figure onto his side before propping him up with pillows and pulling the duvet over him. "Don't choke or drown in your own vomit while you sleep." He kisses Sherlock's forehead. "Sleep tight, Sherlylocks."  
When he wakes up, Sherlock doesn't remember how he got into bed, but his forehead is tingling.


End file.
